My Mother's Blanket

I sleep each night

under my mother’s blanket.

Its blue and white stripes

stitched in thick knots

to fight the cold that creeps under the door

around the windows

through the vents.

 

Sometimes,

I like to open the window shades

stare at the muddy, grey world,

and press my hand against the glass.

I like to watch as the warmth of my skin

sends shadows of fog

To surround my outstretched fingertips.

 

I sleep each night

under my mother’s blanket.

The fat yarn weighs down on me

holds me still

keeps me grounded

as my mind wanders in the dark,

my body anchored by each stitch.

 

On warm nights,

I lift the blanket from my bed.

I spread it out like wings in front of me,

my arms reaching out to each corner of the room.

I collapse into the blanket,

hugging it’s soft flesh to my body.

I fold it gently and lay it across my feet.

 

I sleep each night

under my mother’s blanket.

My knees pulled up,

tucked against my soft belly

while my head bows down to meet them.

I let the weight of the blanket hold me down

 

and I fall asleep.

 
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